


is that the sun that's rising on you now?

by Sixthlight



Category: Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers, Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: AU after Strong Poison, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Relationships, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, F/F, Female Friendship, Gen, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, only slightly crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 07:41:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7882564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sixthlight/pseuds/Sixthlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harriet Vane moves to the other side of the world to find anonymity, and gains a few other things instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	is that the sun that's rising on you now?

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been listening to radio plays of the Peter Wimsey novels after last reading them as a teenager, and I found the whole Peter/Harriet aspect of Strong Poison much more excruciating than romantic a second time around. Solution: have Harriet run away to Australia to hang out with a detective who is equally fun and much less likely to repeatedly propose to her after she’s already said no. Because what else is fanfic for. Set in a sort of hazy post-season-2 space for Miss Fisher, because I found season 3 depressingly heteronormative. 
> 
> Title is from _Ngaire_ , by The Muttonbirds.

“Forgive me,” Phryne Fisher said as she sat, “but you don’t seem terribly comfortable with talking to me. Is it that I’m not the police, or just the circumstances?”

“Oh! No,” said Miss Vane. She had a lovely voice, Phryne thought, deep and melodious, quite her best feature. But she wouldn’t meet Phryne’s eyes, kept glancing out the window into the harsh January sunshine, even though she sat ramrod-straight in her chair. “No, it’s just that – well, I confess I find myself somewhat wary of private detectives. But you’re a lady, so I suppose it’s all right.”

“Is this to do with your recent experience with the courts, before you came out here?”

Miss Vane flushed, a delicate red stain high across her cheekbones. “I’d thought it might not have made the papers this far away.”

“Oh, it didn’t, your anonymity is secure as far as I know,” Phryne assured her. “I had it in a letter from a friend; we have mutual acquaintances, I believe. In Bloomsbury. But I can see why anything to do with a murder inquiry might be distasteful to you, even considering your profession.”

“It’s funny,” said Miss Vane. “I thought it might stop me writing, for a while; but I feel like I’m in control of things, when I do write, and you will agree it’s the sort of thing that lends an air of verisimilitude to my work. Sales have certainly gone up. But to be so close to the possibility of murder, all over again…”

“I quite understand,” said Phryne. “All we really want to know is your impressions of Mr Mackay’s demeanour, when he left you – did he seem happy?”

“Still a question of suicide, then? Or accident. I believe that’s more common with drownings, when I researched the question last.”

“Between you and me, no, although the official coroner thinks so.” Phryne wrinkled her nose. “Mac says no chance of it – suffocated rather than drowned, even though he was picked up from the harbour – and I always trust Mac’s word. Dr Elizabeth Macmillan, that is, a dear friend of mine, she helps the police out sometimes with these things. Well, me, and Inspector Robinson.”

“I’ve heard of her,” Miss Vane said. “In that case, well – I can’t say that he seemed happy _or_ unhappy, merely distracted. He didn’t mention a particular topic of distraction, before you ask. We mostly spoke about business matters – when they could expect my next manuscript, and so on. A useless sort of clue, I’m afraid.”

“Not at all.” Phryne tucked it away for later. “He was a friend as well as working with you, wasn’t he? I’m sorry. These things are hard, and then we trip along and ask all sorts of impertinent questions.”

There wasn’t any question of Miss Vane being a suspect, at least; she had neither motive nor opportunity. But it always paid to see what sort of reaction you got.

Miss Vane sighed. “To be perfectly honest, I didn’t know him well, but I have so little acquaintance here as it is. I wish I was sadder on Alan’s own account. It seems cold-blooded to be thinking of my own social circle. Or of the fact that my new draft is going to have to undergo revisions, and I shan’t be meeting that deadline we spoke of; there’s only an _attempted_ drowning in it, but after everything even that seems too close to home. Blast the man.”

Phryne laughed out loud; she couldn’t help it. “I’m afraid I can’t help you with that, but the first thing is a problem that’s easy to solve. You must come and take tea with me and Dot – my companion – and Mac as well, and the number of your acquaintance is thus repaired, or even enlarged.” She smiled encouragingly at Miss Vane, who merely regarded her with a considering eye. “Unless I’m too terribly scandalous for you to know, now you’ve retired to the Colonies to mend your wild ways. Is that what you meant, about private detectives?”

“Oh, no, that’s…” Miss Vane shook her head. “I would be very pleased to know you better, Miss Fisher. I find it vanishingly unlikely you mean to propose marriage to me, still less repeatedly.”

“Oh, really,” said Phryne, “that sounds like a story.” She had a fair idea of it already – a gossipy letter from Marjorie Phelps, among other things – but probably best to let Miss Vane come out with it on her own terms, if she wanted to at all. Running away to Australia strongly suggested a desire to put the whole thing behind her. Phryne was so glad men never seemed to get the urge to propose to her more than once.  

“Maybe for something stronger than tea,” said Miss Vane, with a wry smile. “One day.”

“Oh, I’ve got a few of those stories myself,” Phryne replied. Miss Vane’s smile broadened into something real.

Yes, thought Phryne; Harriet Vane, mystery novelist, seemed like just the sort of person she wanted to get to know.

*

“What, exactly, is going on?” demanded Inspector Jack Robinson, as Dot ushered him into the living room.

“Oh, hello, Jack,” Phryne said; she couldn’t see him with the blindfold on. “Just a minute; I want to be sure Miss Vane believes this is possible.”

“Who the hell is Miss Vane?” said Jack, indignantly; Phryne concentrated on picking the handcuffs. “And are those my handcuffs?”

“They’re Hugh’s,” Phryne said. “He’s taking tea with Dot in the kitchen, it’s all very civilized and Mr. Butler is chaperoning them, so you don’t need to scold him for leaving them around. There we go.”

“As to your other question,” said Harriet, tone polite but Phryne didn’t need to see to know her back would be up, “I am Miss Vane.”

“Ah.” Jack was torn between confusion and courtesy, evidently; the latter won out. “Inspector Jack Robinson, Miss Vane, from South City police station. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“No, but I’ve heard a great deal about you. Do excuse my not shaking hands; I’m just taking notes.”

“Phryne,” Jack said, “ _are_ you going to explain what’s going on?”

“I’m a novelist,” said Harriet helpfully. “I wanted to know how quickly one could get out of handcuffs while blindfolded, and Phryne – Miss Fisher – offered to demonstrate.”

“Of course she did,” Jack sighed; Phryne got the blindfold off just in time to see resigned amusement on his face.

“I think that’s it,” said Harriet, putting her pencil down and offering him her hand; he shook it firmly.

“Well, a pleasure to meet you, Miss Vane.”

“Is it murder, Jack?” Phryne asked.

“Isn’t it always?”

“Not _always_ ,” she objected, “but certainly at ten a.m. on a Tuesday.”

“I’d best be going, then,” said Harriet, reaching for her handbag. “I wouldn’t want to get in the way of detection.”

“You could always give us a hand,” Phryne suggested. “You’re so good with motives.”

“Don’t tell me you’re a _mystery_ novelist,” said Jack.

“I’m afraid so,” Harriet told him, “but I’ve no taste for replicating real crimes, if it helps, Inspector, so your cases with Phryne won’t be fictionalized in my work.”

“Except in helpful bits, here and there,” Phryne added, because that was true enough.

“I’ve no taste for detection, either,” Harriet went on. “You know that, Phryne.”

“Yes, but you’d be so _good_ at it.” Phryne was quite sure she’d break down that barrier one day; Harriet was already happy to discuss murders hypothetically, over a cup of tea or a glass of wine. “Oh, very well.”

“Thank you again,” said Harriet. “And it was lovely to meet you at last, Inspector. I’ve heard so much.”

“Oh, God,” said Jack. “None of it true, I promise.”

“Don’t say that before you know what it was,” Harriet smiled, and showed herself out.

“That name seems familiar,” Jack said much later that day, when they were both huddled in the corner of a warehouse.

“What name?” asked Phryne. “And be quiet, they’ll be back any second and I didn’t bring my gun.”

“Harriet Vane,” he said. “You _always_ bring your gun.”

“I meant to clean it when Harriet came by,” she told him, sneaking a glance around the crates. “She was accused of murder back Home, a year or two ago. Innocent, of course, triumphantly acquitted, but that’s where you’ll have heard her name. That and the novels. They sell very well now she’s been on the stand for murder herself.”

“Come out here to escape the notoriety?” Jack murmured.

“Something like that,” Phryne agreed; the other little problem was Harriet’s business. “Once they’ve gone by, we should make a run for it.”

“You’re mad,” said Jack, and so of course they did.

They got away with the missing evidence _and_ both of Phryne’s stockings unsnagged, so, really, aside from Jack not coming home with her – which he was getting closer and closer to doing, Phryne was sure – it really was a perfect evening. 

*

“You look lovely,” Phryne told Harriet; she’d just left the Adventuresses’ club, and there was Harriet walking down the street in her best coat and with her hair done up. “Dinner with a friend, perhaps?”

“I’m – not quite sure,” said Harriet. “Dinner with Mac, that’s all.”

“Ah,” said Phryne. “I suppose you do know she thinks a lot-”

“Oh for heavens’ sake,” said Harriet. “I went to a women’s college and I lived in Bloomsbury. Yes, I do know. I just don’t know what I want to do about it.”

“Mac wouldn’t, you know,” said Phryne. “Pine, or anything like that.”

“No,” said Harriet. “I know. That’s why I’m going to dinner. It’s just dinner. For the moment.”

“Good for you,” Phryne said.

“Yes,” Harriet agreed. “I think it is good for me.”

*

“I don’t mean to pry,” said Phryne, who did mean to pry, “but is there something on your mind?”

Mac gave Harriet a sideways glance; she certainly knew what it was. Phryne had had the pair of them over for dinner, and they were retired to the sitting room with whiskey for everybody but Dot. A nice comfortable evening with friends, one of Phryne’s favourite things after a nice athletic evening with a _friend_. Maybe before it, depending upon her mood. Mr Butler’s cooking had been really outstanding.

“I had a letter from – you know who,” said Harriet. “Only the second one since I got here. He’s going all the way to India. Some Foreign Office thing. Said he’d come all the way out, if I said the word and wanted to see him. And then a lot of stuff about always having wanted to see Australia.”

“Oh,” said Dot. “I don’t mean to say you ought to let him, whoever it is, but it does seem terribly romantic. I don’t know if Hugh would do that for me.”

“Hugh has some sense,” said Harriet with asperity.

“You liked him, though,” said Mac. “You said that.”

“He stuffed it up all from the start,” Harriet replied. “Me sitting in that cell, and I’d had forty-six marriage proposals already -”

“Forty-six!” Dot gasped.

“Yes, exactly.” Harriet made a moue of distaste. “And the second thing he says makes him number forty-seven. After that I could never quite – I wanted to like him, I did like him, there was – that sort of _spark_ , you know what I mean, but I wouldn’t marry him, and he wouldn’t have me any _other_ way, and he did keep asking.”

“More fool him,” said Mac.

“Would it have been better if he hadn’t, though?” asked Phryne. “Because that _is_ the worst with a man, when they disclaim any interest and then make up to you as if they want to be friends, and then it’s all a sham.”

“I was headed for the gallows,” said Harriet bluntly. “I wouldn’t have noticed or minded if he’d just kept his mouth shut, it’s not as if he didn’t behave himself otherwise, and I still might not have married him _right_ away, but I wouldn’t always be wondering if, if…”

“If, if he hadn’t wanted to marry you, you’d have swung.” Mac took a sip of whiskey. “Hell of a thing to be wondering when you’re promising _‘till death do us part_.”

“I do think better of him than that.” Harriet looked down into her own glass. “Maybe if I’d…oh, this is why I came out here. A clean start.”

“So what are you going to tell him?” asked Dot. “Or are you just not going to write?”

“A perfectly acceptable stratagem,” said Phryne. “You hardly owe him an answer.”

“I think,” Harriet said slowly, “I shall write and say that there’s someone else who doesn’t mind not marrying me.”

“I’d marry you if you _wanted_ ,” said Mac. “And we could.”

“Well, I don’t and we can’t,” said Harriet, but quite comfortably, and she patted Mac’s hand. Mac smiled at her. “The point is I think it’s better not to burden him with the details, don’t you?”

“Absolutely,” agreed Mac.

“Oh, let’s talk about something else,” said Phryne. “Enough of men we’re not going to marry.”

“The Inspector’s still holding out on you, isn’t he?” Mac grinned. Dot looked shocked, but not nearly as shocked as she would have a year ago.

“His loss,” said Phryne. Jack was just wrestling with his own sense of propriety; not morality, even. He’d come around or he wouldn’t. She wasn’t going to wait. “I meant it, though. Something else. Did you hear that we’re going to have an Australian-born Governor General?”

“No,” said Mac. “Does it make a difference?”

“If that sort of thing matters to you, I suppose,” said Harriet. “It seems in line with the Irish policy. But I thought I’d heard it was going to be Birdwood. He’s not Australian-born.”

“No, Isaacs – the jurist,” said Phryne. “A little birdie told me. And also told me he’s planning on giving up his residence in Melbourne. Aunt Prudence will be beside herself. So many opportunities for charity galas, vanishing.”

“To Sydney, I suppose,” said Mac.

“Not Canberra?” asked Dot. “Now Parliament’s moved there.”

“Probably,” said Phryne. “Not that there’s anything there yet. For my money, they’ll give up and move back to Melbourne sooner or later. It’s in the middle of nowhere. That’ll never work out. It took them fourteen years to work up the nerve to start with.”

“You know, there’s something I’ve never done in a book.” Harriet sounded speculative. “Something with politicians. All sorts of delicious motives there! If one can avoid looking like one is using real people, of course. They do object to that.”

“I can’t imagine why,” said Mac, dryly.

Harriet laughed. She looked happy, smiling in the lamplight, so different from the stiff woman in the harsh sunlight when Phryne had first interviewed her. Phryne felt a warm wave of success. 

Time to write to Peter, she decided, and tell him he hadn’t a hope. He’d recover quickly enough, if he hadn’t already started to move on; he hadn’t even gotten to know Harriet properly, as far she could tell, fallen in love with the image of a woman in the dock and gone from there. It made Phryne quite glad she’d never taken up with him in London, passingly tempting as it had been at the time. But then, she’d been much younger then.

Men. Really.


End file.
